


It's Always Ourselves We Find In The Sea

by Fightyourdragon



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: But mostly fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fightyourdragon/pseuds/Fightyourdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James and Q are stranded on a deserted Island. Yes, things go exactly as you are thinking!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Always Ourselves We Find In The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a silly, fun little fic to get me back into writing 00Q before the reverse big bang. Lots of thanks to Fusterya, Exploding-Pens, and Ayantiel for the prompts. And as always, all the love to my beta extrordinaire Hedwig-Dordt for her tireless author-wrangling and editing!!

_For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)_

_it’s always ourselves we find in the sea._

__

-e. e. cummings

**  
  
**

Q trudges out of the water, sputtering and swearing as he unclips his parachute. “You utter bastard!” he shouts, his heart pounding from a combination of adrenaline and completely justifiable rage.

“You were meant to aim for the sand,” Bond smirks, stepping easily away from his own chute before shedding his irritatingly dry suit coat.

“WAS I REALLY?!” Q fumes, kicking off his soaked loafers and socks in irritation. He yelps as his bare feet hit the hot sand and hastily drags his chute over so he can stand on it instead. “Yes, because I’ve had ever so much experience with falling- no, being _pushed_ , headlong out of planes!”

Bond has the gall to look wounded. “Well I wouldn’t have had to push you if you’d gone willingly. I saved your life, Q. I’m not sure why you’re being so grumpy and... _you_ about it,” he replies as he removes his tie.

“Why I’m- are you even- If I’m being so _me_ it’s because you’re being so _you_! You just blew up a plane, destroying the very plans you were meant to be saving I might add, and managed to strand us on a deserted island at the same time. And now you’re surprised I’m irritated?!” He shakes the water out of his eyes and spits when more of it drips into his mouth. Gods, but seawater is disgusting. “And you wonder why I hate flying?!!”

“Points for having the presence of mind to notice the island is deserted,” Bond says with a nod and a grin as he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“It can’t be more than six square kilometers and it’s one of a thousand islands in the middle of the bloody Indian ocean, Bond, of course I can suss of the fact that it’s deserted! You could’ve at least blown the plane up closer to civilization, as now it’ll be hours before they find us,” Q gripes.

“Ah.” Bond looks shifty as he slides his arms out of his shirt, drops in on top of his suit coat, and starts unbuckling his belt.

Q narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘ah?’” Even the impromptu strip tease does nothing to improve his mood, which is very nearly a shame because even though Bond is an infuriating arse he’s still bloody gorgeous. “ _Tell_ me you haven’t lost your radio,” he snaps in a tone that never fails to send the rest of the double-oh agents- the ones with a lick of sense- scurrying away nervously.

Bond merely looks vaguely guilty. “Well I haven’t lost it, technically. I know for a fact that it’s at the bottom of the ocean within a few hundred miles of here.”

Q gapes. “What?!”

“Don’t looks so accusing,” Bond retorts. “Where’s _yours_?”

“ _Mine_ was in my jacket pocket. The jacket you ripped off and pitched out of an open plane door,” he grits out in aggravation.

“Well in my defence, there was a grenade in the pocket and you were being held at gunpoint,” Bond points out as he toes out of his shoes and leans down to pull off his socks.

“The man was clearly bluffing! You’re the only one crazy enough to fire a gun in a plane, or _actually_ blow the damn thing up! And why are you getting naked?” He’s just settling into a good strop, and all of that golden skin is ridiculously distracting.

“Because it’s got to be 32 degrees out, and if you want to fry in that suit be my guest but I’m getting comfortable,” Bond points out logically as he nonchalantly lets his trousers fall to the sand and steps out of them in nothing but black boxer briefs. “And my plan worked, didn’t it? The bad guy of the week didn’t manage to get the top secret formula _you_ managed to lose. Personally, I think you’re over-reacting here.”

Q swallows hard, thanking the gods at least the briefs aren’t white so they leave _something_ to the imagination. “First of all, excuse me for thinking the basement of MI-6 was actually a safe place to store government secrets. And secondly, I hardly think I’m over-reacting. If no one knows we’re here we could be stuck here for ages, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t actually know how to catch fish with my bare hands or dig a well for drinking water!”

Bond quirks up an eyebrow at Q and then leans down to grab a small leather pouch out of his suit pocket. “Maybe you should take a few deep breaths. Do some yoga or whatever it is you to do calm down. You look like a spitting mad cat that just dragged itself out of a bath. I sent out a distress call, they’ll have a vague idea of where to look so I can’t imagine we’ll be here longer than a few days. Think of this as a vacation. When was the last time you took one?”

“You should talk. You never take one unless Mallory forces it upon you. Besides, I highly doubt there is a secret stash of alcohol around so Margaritas on the beach are right out.” Feeling rather self-conscious, but also miserable in the wet clothing, he pulls the light cashmere jumper and undershirt off in one motion and dumps them onto the parachute to avoid getting them even more full of sand.

Bond simply shrugs and fixes Q with his patented seductive gaze. “Well, I’m sure we can find _something_ else to do to pass the time.”

For a moment Q actually stops breathing and freezes in the act of looking down to unbutton his trousers. There’s no way Bond is serious. This is just his way of trying to lighten the mood, surely. He looks up at the man cautiously through the hair still dripping into his eyes.

Bond looks at Q closely for a moment before breaking the moment with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m joking. I won’t make a pass at you, I swear. Despite what you’ve no doubt heard, I don’t actually make it a practice to coerce anyone into sleeping with me. I won’t do it again.” He rubs the back of his neck with one hand and holds the pouch out with the other.

Q is so surprised to see a flash of what looks like genuine disappointment flash across Bond’s eyes that he nearly trips getting out of his own trousers. When he rights himself, willing himself not to be embarrassed about his own slight and pale form or navy briefs, he gets another shock when he recognizes the object. “You actually kept it?”

Bond nods, looking anywhere but at Q. “Well, one never knows when an apocalypse could strike. Seemed unwise to leave home without it.” He steps closer and hands Q the pouch. “We should probably get you out of the sun, you’ll burn to a crisp.” Turning briskly, he takes one end of his parachute and begins dragging it towards the shade near the treeline without waiting to see if Q will follow.

Q unzips the small leather case so it falls open like a book and runs a finger lightly over the objects inside. It was meant to be a gag gift. He’d pulled Bond’s name in the voluntary-but-not-really secret santa exchange Mallory had insisted on a few months ago, and had put this little apocalypse preparedness kit together. He’d added a card stating that if anyone could cause an apocalypse it would be Bond, so he may as well be prepared for it. Bond had never even mentioned it, and Q had just assumed it landed in a bin somewhere.

He looks over at Bond, who is arranging the parachute in the shade, and feels an unexpected bloom of tenderness. It’s an entirely new sensation. Oh, he’d felt lust and desire for the man. He is in fact still breathing and all. But the fact that Bond carries his gift around is- he struggles to come up with a word that doesn’t resemble _adorable_ and fails. Oh, lovely. Thinking about the man while having a wank in the shower is one thing, but this feeling is dangerously close to genuine affection. Which wouldn’t be a problem, if Bond had ever shown any sort of real interest in him.

Q drags his chute fully up onto the beach to dry, and then sprints across the hot sand to join Bond in the shade. He down cross-legged, far away enough for it not to be awkward but close enough that when he sets the open pouch down between them it’s still visible to both of them. “Well, perhaps thing aren’t quite as dire as I first thought,” he admits as he peruses the items: a straw to turn any fresh water potable, a magnifying glass meant for starting fires, a swiss army knife, a compass, a few bandages and antibiotic cream, a tiny torch, and an actual exploding pen. “I still can’t believe you actually have this.”

Bond shrugs. “You gave it to me. I do in fact listen when you tell me not to lose your equipment, but there are usually extenuating circumstances,” he points out with an unapologetic grin.

“Extenuating, huh? Is that what we’re calling the Minsk Incident now?” Q teases, his mood suddenly much lighter. The presence of even this simple technology is calming. He supposes Bond is right and they’re sure to be found before long, and he can’t deny that the beach is rather beautiful. Even a cursory glance around reveals several varieties of fruit-bearing trees. A vacation, then, decides as he stretches his legs out, leans back onto the parachute and closes his eyes momentarily.

“We are,” Bond agrees. “So are you just going to nap and leave me to do all the work then?”  

Q peeks his eyes open just in time to catch the way Bond’s gaze sweeps across his prone form, expression so carefully blank Q just knows he’s masking some emotion. Probably disappointment that he couldn’t be stranded with someone more appealing, no doubt. The thought makes him suddenly irritated all over again. “First you tell me to relax, now I’m lazy. Make up your mind! And yes, this is what I look like. We can’t all be as fit as you,” he snaps. Bond’s flinch makes him immediately feel guilty. He really hopes his sudden mood swings can be attributed to shock.

“Right. While you sort out if you’re Jekyll or Hyde, I’m going to to build us a shelter. It’s going to rain tonight, and it will be dark in a few hours.” Bond gets up and stalks away.

Q watches him go and mentally smacks himself. Here he is, with rare and unrestricted access to Bond, and he’s already gone and cocked everything up. How many times has he indulged in pointless little fantasies about getting the man alone, just to get to know him better? To find out what makes him so magnetic? Of course in his fantasies James- because he’s allowed to use his first name in his own fantasies if nowhere else- was never quite so desperate to get away from him. He bangs the back of his head against the sand. This is the very definition of being one’s own worst enemy.

Ten minutes later, Q finally gets up the courage to go find Bond. Hopefully he can apologize, stop acting like such an idiot, and everything will be okay. He climbs a nearby tree and tosses down a few pieces of mystery fruit, gathers them up, and begins walking. As he suspected, Bond hasn’t actually gone far. Q finds him less than two minutes down the beach, in the process of dragging a few branches to lie across the space between a large fallen tree and a few tall boulders. It’s a rather lovely sight, and Q takes a minute to appreciate the way Bond’s muscles shift beneath is skin before he approaches.

“So…” he begins eloquently. “I brought you a peace offering.” He holds out a few pieces of fruit bundled up in his wet undershirt. “I know it doesn’t come as a surprise to you that I can be a bit of an arse...”

Bond turns towards Q and eyes him speculatively. “Nope, I sorted that one out within a minute of meeting you,” he agrees with a cautiously optimistic grin.

Q breathes a sigh of relief that Bond isn’t planning on staying irritated with him. “Quite, yes. I apologize for being short with you, but I did mention I dislike flying and then you went and blew up the sodding plane and stranded us here, and I’m not accustomed to this level of...everything. But I’m not lazy, or useless, even though I’m half your size. So.” He crosses his arms and waits for a response.

Bond simply laughs. “That was the worse apology I’ve ever heard in my life, but I’ll take it. Now, how about helping me find some more branches and then we’ll have dinner?”

A rather exhausting few hours later they are huddled under their tent made of Q’s damp parachute for a roof and Bond’d dry one for a floor. The magnifying glass worked wonderfully on a bunch of dried leaves and grasses, and they ate their fill of fresh fruit which also helped with the thirst. The straw won’t work on salt water, so they have the end of the roof parachute carefully set to catch the rainwater to drink in the morning. They watch the sunset beyond the fire, and listen to the thunder rolling in.

“This is nice,” Q sighs, enjoying the feeling of wearing Bond’s too-large suit coat as he rests his chin on his pulled-up knees. Bond had insisted Q wear it as his own is still damp and salt-encrusted, and it’s becoming steadily cooler. Bond is sitting next to him wearing his open button-down shirt and looking unfairly gorgeous in the red-hued fading light.

“Sometimes you just need to get away from it all,” Bond agrees. “And this time I didn’t even need to play dead,” he adds, a hint of old pain in his tone.

“Technically, we both might be playing dead,” Q points out. Who knows what they think happened to us. “But you’re right. I haven’t been out of mobile range since uni.”

“So young,” Bond muses wistfully, his hand twitching as if he’s about to reach out to touch Q but he thought better of it.

Q’s stomach does a little flip. He has no idea if the look in Bond’s eyes is actual interest, or just a trick of the flames. “Not so young,” he counters hopefully. Before he can think of anything else to say a crack of thunder and flash of lightning shatters the moment.

They scramble for the shelter of the parachute, where they look at each other awkwardly for a few moments. There really isn’t enough room that sleeping with any amount of space between them is an option.

“Let’s be logical about this,” Bond states. “It’s going to get cool tonight, and I don’t want you getting sick from going from hot to cool and back again so suddenly. You keep my coat on and I’ll wear my shirt. We can get close, and use my dry trousers to tuck around our legs so we’re as warm as possible. Deal?”

“Right. Logical. That makes sense,” Q agrees, clamping down hard on his disappointment. Of course Bond isn’t actually interested in snuggling because he actually _wants_ to.

“Just for warmth. I won’t try anything, like I promised,” Bond adds as he lies back and holds out his arm, making it clear he’s inviting Q to slide in and rest against his side.

“I didn’t think you would,” Q states sadly as he folds himself along Bond’s body and shifts onto his side so he can rest his head on that tempting chest. Throwing caution to the wind, because when will he get this chance again, he lets his top leg fall over Bond’s in an approximation of an embrace. He’s grateful for the pounding of the rain that masks the pounding of his heart. At first he thinks he’ll never be able to sleep, but the combination of exhaustion and stress have him falling into unconsciousness within a few minutes. He’s positive he dreams the fingers carding gently through his hair.

Q wakes to noisy birds, too much light- light is evil at arse o’clock in the morning- and the sensation of itchy insect bites. His mouth is dry and tastes exactly like one would expect without having brushed his teeth for twenty-four hours. He is decidedly _not_ in a good mood. He groans and sits up to find himself alone beneath the parachute shelter.

He stretches and groans, sitting up stiffly. He wants tea. And a toothbrush. He’s about to start grumbling aloud to himself since Bond is nowhere to be seen, when he turns to see what looks for all the world to be an attempt at breakfast in bed. He blinks uncertainly at the pile of cut-up fruit, some sort of whittled approximation of a fork, the drinking straw, and one bright orange flower arranged artfully on a large leaf. It’s an unexpectedly sweet gesture, and most of his irritation fades. Which was no doubt Bond’s intention, the manipulative bastard. He’s probably trying to induce some sort of Stockholm syndrome, Q considers. Still, he can’t help the bloom of fondness or keep himself from smiling as he picks up the fork and begins to eat.

Once he’s eaten, relieved himself in the bushes, and drank his fill of the water collected in the parachute- which tastes odd, but is still wonderfully quenching- he wanders off to find Bond. He’s tempted to put on his undershirt, but it’s already so warm he knows he’ll just end up feeling miserable. He resigns himself to walking around in his briefs and feeling ridiculous for the remainder of their time here. When he locates Bond, he has a whole new reason to lament his lack of clothing because life is seriously, _seriously_ unfair.

Bond has apparently decided to go for a morning swim, and Q swallows hard as the man strides slowly out of the water onto the beach. Water runs down his body, accentuating the rises and dips of his muscles and making the black material cling so closely that the outline of his cock is impossible to ignore. Q both loves and hates his life.

“About time you woke up!” Bond calls, his tone carefree as he shakes the water off of his hair

“It can’t be more than seven a.m. I thought this was supposed to be a vacation. Normal people sleep on vacations,” Q replies, looking out at the ocean since the last thing he needs is for Bond to read the no doubt blatant interest on his face.

“I gave you room service. That should count for something, right?” Bond asks, good mood undeterred.

“Hmm, I suppose so. No tea though,” he laments.

Bond huffs. “Damn but you’re hard to impress, Q. I made you a fork! What do I need to do, wrestle a shark and cook it for dinner?” His tone is joking, but there is a definite undertone of disappointment.

Q blinks over at Bond in surprise. “Since when do you care if I’m impressed by you?”

“Since never. Forget it,” Bond grumbles. “I’m going to gather some wood so we can start a bonfire here on the beach. Might have to let it dry out for a few hours, but they’ll find us sooner that way.” He turns and stalks off, leaving Q to stare after him in confusion.

Since he’s not thinking he’s welcome at the moment, Q turns and heads up the beach in the other direction to help gather wood. As usual, Bond is being maddeningly difficult to read. He’s never given any indication that he’s had any special interest in Q. Since starting at MI6 Q has had a string of admirers, from cautions requests for coffee dates to flirtatious interactions, to one overly aggressive junior agent who soon mysteriously transferred to a post in honest-to-god Siberia. But Bond has never been anything other than a slightly cool version of friendly, and always the teasing about Q being young and inexperienced.

Q has always considered it a shame, really, since Bond is the only one he’d actually be tempted to say yes to if the man were ever to ask him out. Or, you know, into the nearest supply closet. Or into his Aston Martin. So possibly there are a series of frequent fantasies. But Bond is attractive in an unconventional sort of way. And resilient. And actually far more intelligent than people gave him credit for. And fiercely loyal. And _interesting_. And so out-of-his league it’s ridiculous, Q sighs as he gathers a few fallen branches. And yet. Now Bond is being extra nice to him. And _looking_ at him. And that was practically cuddling, last night. So maybe there is a chance. The problem is, Q can’t tell if Bond is just interested in a deserted island hook-up. Which would be fun, yes, but Q doesn’t think he could deal with Bond going back to pretending it never happened once they’re rescued. No, he can tell this thing he has for Bond is more than a passing interest. And as far as he can tell, Bond doesn’t do relationships. No, best to just leave things as they are.

And yet.

By the time the re-convene with their first bundles of wood, Bond is back to behaving like nothing happened though he isn’t really saying anything, and Q decides to follow suit. They gather a few more bundles and lay them on the sand to dry, and then decide they may as well take a walk around the island so they’re familiar with their surroundings. As uncomfortable and ridiculous looking as it is, they wear their shoes since the sand is hot, and they don’t want to enter the cover of trees barefoot. They also bring their shirts so they can bundle fruit up in them.

“Well there is one bright side to all of this,” Q comments as they head out.

“Just one? I’d say you lucked out for company. You could be stuck here with 002,” Bond replies with a relieved sort of grin, as if he’s pleased they’re talking again.

“There would be death, and it wouldn’t be my body they’d find,” Q mutters darkly. He still isn’t over the time 002 ‘borrowed’ and destroyed the first replacement Aston Martin he’d built for Bond. Though the second one was even better, that’s not the _point._ “Actually, I was just thinking we’re lucky there’s no one around to get photographic evidence of us wandering about in our shoes and pants, looking like the most pathetic pirates ever.”

Bond glances down at himself and laughs, then looks Q up and down with an expression that’s too over-the-top appreciative to be taken seriously. “I don’t know, I think you pull it off,” he teases.

Damn the man, Q still can’t tell if he’s serious or not. The problem with trying to determine what Bond is actually thinking, is he’s been expertly trained not to show what he’s thinking. It’s frustrating as hell, really it is. Suddenly, he just needs to know. _Mission: Does Bond Want To Get Naked With Me_ is on.

“I do, don’t I?” Q replies as he walks ahead, swinging his hips and throwing his shirt over one shoulder. He glances back and winks, and is at least 82% certain he sees a flash of genuine desire on Bond’s face for the split second before he rolls his eyes and tosses a papaya at Q’s arse.

The day passes far more quickly than Q expects, and as the hours pass he finds the idea of not being found for a few days more and more attractive. He’s never seen Bond this...happy. Didn’t even truly realize this was a version of the man that existed. He tells jokes, and plays ridiculous splashing games when they go for a swim, and brings Q shells he finds particularly interesting.

Bond lets Q start the fire, and doesn’t laugh when it takes him five tries. They use the compass to create a map drawn in the sand of where they suspect they are, and when they disagree Bond simply shrugs and says he bets Q a bottle of good Scotch he’s right. They make a Mancala game board out of sticks laid out on the sand and use pebbles for markers. Q loses seven games out of ten, which is maddening, but he finds it fascinating to watch how Bond’s strategic mind works.

They gather more fruit for lunch, and then they lounge in the shade of their makeshift tent during the hottest part of the day and just talk. For hours. Bond is funny, and unexpectedly open. They trade stories about how they both ended up with MI6, and share adventures in messing with weapons, and make plans for new and increasingly impossible ones. They argue over things like the best WWII tanks, and it’s the most fun Q has had in years. In short, while he _still_ isn’t 100% positive about Bond’s feelings for him, he’s certain of his own. He _wants_ , and more than just an island fling. Though at this point, he suspects he’ll take what he can get.

They spend a hilarious half an hour trying to gather crabs for dinner, and they both agree the fact that two of MI6’s best were nearly defeated by a few scuttling crustaceans is one of those things that shall remain forever a secret. Though Q has to admit letting Bond bandage his pinched finger was rather worth the pain, as the man is unexpectedly gentle and bites his lip in concentration. Which is just unfair, because now he wants a turn.

Bond shaves down a few sticks so they can roast the crabs over the fire, and they sit on the beach using their shirts for beach blankets as they cook. The sun is beginning to set and everything looks red-hued and beautiful.

“This doesn’t feel like real life,” Q muses as he picks his second crab apart to get to the meat. It’s surprisingly good, considering the lack of seasonings.

“No? What does it feel like?” Bond asks as he sucks a bit of meat out of a crab leg.

“I don’t know...a dream, or some sort of alternate reality. In real life, you and I don’t spend the day together on a tropical island. You don’t let me sleep with you, or spend hours talking to me. In real life, you aren’t terribly interested in me.” Q lets the disappointment slip into his voice, the wistful expression linger in his half-smile and the set of his eyes. It’s a risk, but he needs to know if Bond is as affected by this day- this situation- as he is.

Bond opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. Appears to have some sort of internal struggle with himself, and lose. “And if I _am_ interested?” He looks out over the ocean, up at the steadily appearing stars, anywhere but at Q.

Q moves before his conscious brain has a chance to decide this is possibly a terrible idea. He crawls the few paces over to Bond, essentially throws himself into the man’s lap, wraps his arms around Bond’s neck, and kisses him. It is not, quite possibly, a terribly expert kiss. Too forward, too rough, too messy. It’s still incredible.

Rather than push him off as Q was half expecting, Bond makes a ragged, desperate sort of noise deep in his chest and pulls Q closer. He opens his mouth in invitation and sucks on Q’s tongue for a few moments before shifting to nip at Q’s lower lip and then soothing it with a few more teasing licks.

Q makes a noise of protest when Bond moves to separate them. “Don’t stop,” he pleads against Bond’s lips. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it if he’s rejected now, when his skin is already flushed and his arousal impossible to hide, and he knows the warmth of their bodies pressed together.

"As if I fucking could," Bond growls, going back to licking and nibbling at Q's lips for a few moments before he continues. "I was just thinking this would be easier if we moved to the parachute so we don't end up with even more sand in uncomfortable places.” He reaches a hand up and brushes a salt-matted curl out of Q’s eyes.

Q feels another rush of affection at the softness of the gesture. He hadn’t envisioned that there would be anything gentle about sexual activity with the infamous 007. It’s also nerve-inducing because Bond is looking at him as if he’s something wonderful, something he’s wanted and can’t believe he’s being granted. It makes this thing between them feel intensely intimate and they’ve only just started, and Q suspects he’ll be half in-love by the end. He knows he could be setting himself up for getting hurt, but he wants this too badly to stop. Not trusting his voice, he nods and gets up, wondering if it would be weird to hold Bond’s hand. He doesn’t know, so he stands there awkwardly for a moment.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous,” Bond grins, grabbing Q around the waist and kissing him before he has a chance to reply.

Well, this works too, Q thinks as they make their way to the makeshift tent in a zig-zagging, stumbling, rather amusing- and there’s another word he hadn’t expected to attach to sex with Bond- trajectory. They crawl inside and Bond tugs the edge down so they are sheltered from the local insect population as much as possible, and then tugs Q down on top of him. He surprises Q again by lacing their fingers together, and then bringing his hands up to rest just above his head as if Q is holding him down.

“Does this work for you?” Bond asks with a smirk at Q’s uncertain glance at their joined hands.

“Does this-? Are you even-? Yeah, it definitely works.” He moves to straddle Bond’s thighs and glances down significantly. “Though I can’t really...you know.” He’s grateful the growing dark hides his blush, because gods is he bad at this.

Bond quirks a brow up at Q. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with this. And we’ve got all night. Possibly all day, and the next night as well before they find us. What’s your rush?” He tilts his chin up, inviting a kiss.

Q complies, dropping from his crouch so their bodies are flush and oh, but this is perfect. He stops second-guessing himself and just loses himself in the pleasure of kissing and rolling his hips without conscious effort, enjoying the feeling of delicious skin-against-skin. And such kissing. He’s had entire sexual encounters that weren’t _nearly_ this good. The things Bond does with his tongue are intoxicating, and he favors a delicious variety biting and licking and there’s nothing passive about him despite being pinned. He kisses as if he’s starving for it, as if he’d be content to do just this and nothing more. It’s addictive as hell.

As much as he’s enjoying this, Q also craves Bond’s hands on him so he slides his hands away and moves them to over play with Bond’s hair. “I can still kiss you if you’re grabbing my arse or dragging your fingers down my back,” he says in what he hopes is a seductive voice but is likely just breathless and needy.

Bond complies immediately, grabbing Q’s arse and pulling him down so he can slide their erections more tightly against each other as he nips at Q’s jaw.

Q can feel Bond’s satisfied smirk at his rather undignified whimper, but he can’t be bothered to care because it feels so. Damn. Good. He tilts his head for better access and can only writhe and swear and clutch at Bond’s hair at the delicious sensations of stubble scratching against his neck and nails down his back. He rocks his hips down and makes a wholly unfamiliar keening sort of cry as Bond’s fingers slip beneath the cloth of his briefs to dig into his bare skin.

“Good?” Bond asks, satisfaction clear in his tone. He turns to gentle stroking, then slides one finger down to tease at the sensitive skin behind Q’s testicles. He growls at the choked whine and the involuntary jerk of Q’s hips as he seeks more contact.

“Yes, good. You’re a sex god. Whatever you want to hear. Now can we please get naked because if I don’t have your cock in my mouth in the next minute I’m going to lose it,” Q snaps, well beyond the point of caring how desperate he sounds.

Bond freezes, clearly surprised, before bursting out laughing. “I _knew_ you’d be just as stroppy in bed as you are when you’re ordering me about,” he replies in amusement before pulling Q in for a quick kiss. “Whatever you say, Quartermaster,” he smirks, reaching down to wriggle out of his briefs as Q does the same.

Q decides that Bond does not, after a comment like that, actually _deserve_ to have his cock sucked in the next minute, so he takes his time. He’s not sure which of them it frustrates more, honestly. Bond’s hands tangle in his hair and Q moans around the pebbled nipple he’s busy teasing, as his entire body shivers because yes, more of that. He _loves_ having his hair pulled. Bond seems to take the hint, because he keeps up his petting and tugging as Q slowly licks and sucks his way down.

"We're so doing this after a shower someday," he says with a confident tone, hoping Bond will go for it. He giggles as he runs his tongue up Bond’s length and sucks on the head lightly, because he’s feeling high on the thrill, the utter blissful unreality of the situation, and he can’t help it. “This is the first time a cock actually tastes salty and oceanic like you hear in bad romance novels,” he snickers in amusement.  

Bond’s hips stutter to a standstill, and he pauses for a moment before laughing in reply and pulling at Q’s shoulders. “You’re ridiculous. Get up here.” He licks his way back into Q’s mouth and hums in appreciation.

Q is thrilled to discover that Bond doesn’t mind tasting himself on Q’s tongue. He’s always thought mid-blowjob kisses were rather hot himself. And the kissing is amazing, it is, but he wants to go back to what he was starting as well. “I want to suck you, I do, but this is so good too,” he growls in frustration.

“We can manage both,” Bond assures, pulling back far enough to run a finger across Q’s lips. He groans when Q sucks on the tip, and then returns to kissing him until Q is breathless and clawing at any bit of skin he can reach.

“Well feel free to show me how,” Q pants, grunting in surprise when Bond rolls him immediately over onto his back. Which is a wonderful position to be in as well.

“Tell me if you don’t like this,” Bond says as he encourages Q up to lie back on his elbows and forearms. He kisses Q for a few moments, and then shifts up so he’s straddling Q’s chest so he can guide his cock gently between Q’s lips.

Oh, he definitely likes this, Q decides as he looks up at Bond’s wondering, struggling-for-control expression. He licks and sucks contentedly, taking the offered erection as deeply as Bond will allow. Just as he’s working up a good rhythm, Bond pulls away and goes back to kissing him deeply before sliding down to take Q’s length into his mouth with no real warning. The noise Q makes is unquantifiable.

“Just like that, gorgeous, I want to hear you,” Bond smirks before resuming turning Q into an utter wreck.

Q writhes and reaches one hand down to scrabble at Bond’s hair. No one has ever done this before, paused mid-pleasure to see to his own. Oh, he’s played around with the sixty-nine position of course, but there’s something even hotter, more intimate, about this. He barely has time to get into it before Bond is pulling away to lick teasingly at his length, only to climb up and go back to kissing Q like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

Q feels like he’s floating drunkenly in some sort of cocoon of all-consuming pleasure.  Part of it is likely to the way the parachute falls around them, enclosing them in this safe haven. As the sun sets the only source of light is the glow of the fire a ways down the beach, and their  shadows dance and flicker darkly across the fabric. Bond alternates between kissing him, sucking him, and sliding his cock into Q’s eager mouth and it should probably feel all sorts of kinky and dirty but really it just feels...romantic. Intimate.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Q reaches the end of his tolerance. “Bond, please,” he pleads, unable to be any more coherent.

“James. Call me James,” he murmurs against their spit-slicked lips as he straddles Q’s hips and wraps a hand around both of them.

“James. Oh, fuck, just like that,” Q breathes, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. _James._..when he can concentrate, he’s going to fully appreciate it. Now, all he can do is surrender to the sensation of sweat-slicked skin, the calluses on James’ hands, and his spiraling, uncontrollable rush towards orgasm.

He doesn’t white-out, or black-out, or any of those other odd descriptions he’s heard. It’s more like a quieting of the mind, a melting sort of sensation as his muscles relax and everything goes languid and deliciously tension-free.

“You still with me?” Bond- no, _James_ \- asks, his voice sleepy and amused as he runs his fingers through Q’s tangled hair.

“Barely. In the best possible way, though. That was...I don’t know what that was, but promise me we’ll do it again,” he mumbles, tilting his head up for a kiss. As if he hasn’t had enough of them, but he’s feeling greedy.

“Definitely. In a bed even,” James promises before leaning in for another few minutes of soft, lazy kissing. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to do this again. Or in the first place, really,” he admits when they finally draw apart.

“You’re a crazy person. _You’re_ the one who didn’t seem interested in _me_ ,” Q protests.

“Well excuse me for not thinking it was a brilliant plan to hit on my young, gorgeous new sort-of-boss,” James replies. “You _are_ responsible for my life out there in the field, it wouldn’t do to piss you off. And you never took anyone else up on their offers, so I assumed you didn’t date at work.”

“I’m willing to make an exception,” Q says, rolling his eyes. “On one condition. Okay, two conditions,” he states in his no-nonsense Quartermaster tone.  

“I’m listening.” James nods in mock-seriousness.  

“One, you sort out some way to get us cleaned up. And two, you steal Mallory’s leather sofa and move it into my office so we can have something to fuck on. My desk is always full of expensive technology I don’t want you breaking. You destroy enough on missions.”

“I think I can handle that second one,” James laughs. “Now about that first request…” he scoops Q up and maneuvers them out of the tent.

Q yelps in surprise and wraps his arms around James’ neck. “What are you doing? Wait, no, we’ll take forever to dry now that it’s dark!” he protests, squirming as James carries him resolutely towards the moonlight-tinged waves. “This isn’t what I meant!” He shrieks as James tips them both over sideways into the cool water.  He comes up sputtering and swearing but James, the arse, just laughs.

“I’m getting us clean! What else was I supposed to do? I promise you long, sex-filled showers when we get back,” James soothes, pulling Q in to wrap his legs around his waist.  

“Hot showers,” Q grumbles, any minor irritation fading as he wraps his arms around James’ neck.

“Hot showers. And fluffy towels. And a soft hotel bed. I think we’re due for a vacation after this, don’t you? Possibly to the alps,” he considers. “I think I’ve had enough of beaches, and cold is a perfect excuse not to leave the room.”

“Done,” Q agrees. “Now we just have to hope they find us soon.”

“Oh don’t worry about that. I just need to activate my radio,” James states cautiously, pulling Q in for a kiss before he has a chance to respond.

“Wait, what? I thought you lost it!” Q narrows his eyes and refuses to be distracted. Actually, it’s about the most ridiculous, adorable thing he’s ever heard. “Did you seriously leave us stranded for this entire time just to get into my pants?”

James looks shifty. “Well I didn’t know it would work, did I? I just wanted to have you to myself for a while. I didn’t actually think I’d get this lucky.”

“James?”

“Yes?”

“We’re taking the train to Switzerland.”

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